


Uncle Algie Makes a Call

by BrieflyDel (newredshoes)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-19
Updated: 2001-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/BrieflyDel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Neville Longbottom unwillingly proved the existence of his magical ability, all because of Algador and that meringue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncle Algie Makes a Call

_“Accepted at Hogwarts? That’s the stuff, my boy!” Uncle Algie pounded his grand-nephew Neville heavily on the back. Neville caught himself, and smiled awkwardly. Uncle Algie jumped to his feet, apparently overcome with joy. “Enid, get me the Portkey to Diagon Alley! I think this merits a_ toad!” _His merry eyes twinkled out at Neville from beneath his absurdly bushy eyebrows. “Always knew you had it in you, boy!” he proclaimed. “Though it took some doing gettin’ you to show it, eh wot?”_

Neville winced. “Yes, Great-Uncle Algie.”

Algador Longbottom chortled. “Look where it’s gotten you! Hogwarts! _Good thing I came over that day, isn’t it?”_

Neville obediently nodded. He remembered the incident only too well…

* * *

The doorbell rang at half past one in the afternoon. “I’ll get it!” eight-year old Neville squealed excitedly.

“There’s a good boy,” his grandmother said as she poured herself more tea. Neville hopped off his chair and raced through the halls toward the vestibule. He always liked visitors: they had such interesting things to say to Gran. He usually got sweets and little toys too. He reached the foyer and skidded to a halt before the grand carved oak door. He peered through the rippled glass, to see if he might know who the caller was. All he could make out was a large, round shape wearing a vaguely beige-colored suit. The door shook as the someone knocked heartily against it. Neville could contain his curiosity no more. He threw open the door, and immediately his face drained.

“Uncle Algie…” he moaned in shock.

“Neville!” the man roared, dropping a large wrapped box and lifting his grand-nephew off his feet for a bear hug. “How’s my lad? Anything _interesting_ happened to you lately?” He gave a great wink, and with a wiggle of his walrus mustache dropped the boy. Neville’s eye fell on the package his great-uncle had dropped.

“Uncle Algie, your box is trying to get it away,” he said urgently, nursing his sore stomach.

“Is it?” Uncle Algie pulled a monocle out of his vest pocket and studied the present. An ominous thumping noise was coming from within, and the box seemed to be struggling to escape. Uncle Algie gave a great booming laugh and cried, “Indeed it is!” He scooped the package up and swept inside. “Phyllida!” he roared. “Come give your dear old in-law a peck!”

Neville was still reeling from his uncle’s grand entrance. He stood, dumbly holding the door open and watching his uncle rumble through the house. From behind he’d glimpsed the gift more fully; he wondered why the package had been weighted down.

“Neville dear, is that you?”

He turned abruptly, startled. His Great Aunt Enid stood blinking at him from the doorstep. He gave a timid smile. “Hullo, Aunt Enid.”

Her face split into a large, vapid grin. “Hello, dear! How are you, peaches? May we come in?”

Neville blinked at the redundant question, but he then remembered he ought to invite his relatives in, and did so. “Thank you, pumpkin,” she cooed. She extended a thin, elegant hand, and Neville lead her across the threshold. Aunt Enid shed her summer cloak — Neville caught it just in time — and asked pleasantly, “Now, mind showing us where your dear gran is?”

She seemed to know anyway — either that, or she was simply following the wake of her husband. Neville hurried along after her, taking care not to let the billowing robes drag on the floor, trying to ask questions along the way.

“We—I mean, I didn’t know you two were coming, Aunt Enid.”

“Oh, well, it had been such a long time since we’d seen you, and a growing boy like you changes so fast,” she answered vaguely. Neville remembered the last time he’d seen his grandfather’s brother and his wife: they’d been at the gathering of mostly ancient Longbottoms two summers ago at Blackpool. Great-Uncle Algie had dropped him off a pier, much to the horror of everyone else. Gran hadn’t asked them over to tea or anything else since then.

“Did Gran know you were going to come?” he asked.

“Perhaps the date slipped her mind,” Great-Aunt Enid answered, evasive and a little embarrassed. Neville frowned: that didn’t make any sense. His grandmother had the sharpest mind of anybody he’d ever known. But Aunt Enid was a grown-up — she probably wouldn’t lie to him.

They came into the tea room on the second floor just in time to hear Gran say stiffly “—reason why we can’t just be civil.” Uncle Algie had a bit of a shamefaced expression on his face, but it vanished when he spotted Neville.

“Just the chap I’ve been looking for! Got you a few birthday presents, eh!”

“But my birthday’s not until July,” Neville informed him, puzzled. Uncle Algie just shook his head and laughed. He reached inside a pocket of his beige jacket and made a poor though enthusiastic show of producing two glass bottles filled with a red liquid, which occasionally produced a small explosion and made the sides of the bottle rock in Uncle Algie’s large hands.

Neville’s eyes lit up. “Strawberry Fizz!” he breathed ecstatically. “I’ve _heard_ about this stuff!” He didn’t dare elaborate: the beverage was too wonderful to risk having it taken away if Gran knew its appeal. The stuff was practically liquid Fizzing Whizbees — which he also couldn’t wait to try.

“Strawberry Fizz!” Gran exclaimed disapprovingly. “Where on _earth_ did you come up with such a concoction? And you!” she continued, turning her attention to her grandson. “Where did you learn of this _wretched_ nonsense?”

Neville cowed a little under her stern glare. “Winston Smith-Jeffries told me about,” he muttered guiltily.

“Pshaw! Phyllida, this is kid’s stuff compared to I could have brought him!” Algie declared dismissively. “Boy’s never had Butterbeer, now has he? Or—”

“No, and he certainly won’t be exposed to it anytime soon! He—”

“Shall I put some water on the boiler?” Aunt Enid interrupted. Gran just seemed to notice her, and her face lit up.

“Enid! How good of you to come! Oh no, don’t bother with the tea, I’ll have Pippi on it.” She clapped her hands, and their house-elf came rushing out of nowhere.

“Yes, misses?” she squeaked.

“A full tea for our guests, please.”

“Rights away, misses!!” The house-elf turned tail and scurried out of the room.

Gran turned back to her two impromptu guests. “Well…” she said finally, with a bit of a forced smile. “Please, sit down.”

Uncle Algie obliged with gusto, flopping down in a large armchair and propping up his feet on the accompanying ottoman. “Well, my dear, how has your young life been? Young Neville been running you ragged?” He gave a roguish wink.

Gran was visibly affronted. “Neville is a very well-behaved boy,” she replied stiffly.

“And I’m not saying that’s a bad thing,” Uncle Algie protested. “But surely he could do with a bit more excitement, eh? Does he do any sports? Any traveling?”

“We go to London sometimes,” Neville said uncomfortably. An awkward silence hung in the air. Neville suddenly felt Great Aunt Enid’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t mind your uncle, dear, he’s got a good heart.” She looked over at her husband. “Typical Hufflepuff,” she chided affectionately.

“Ach! don’t start with all your House rivalry again, Ravenclaw!” he cried. “Remember, it was us what beat you in Quidditch six years running while I was on the team?”

“What’s Hufflepuff and Quidditch?” Neville asked, confused.

“Hogwarts things, dear,” Gran said importantly. “You’ll understand when you get there.”

“Oh, has he showed signs yet?” Algie asked, his eyes lit up delightedly.

“Well.. no,” Gran said cautiously. “Not yet. But we know he’ll come along in his own good time.”

“Good time my mustache!” Uncle Algie cried. “The trouble is you’re coddling the boy! You don’t push him enough, Phyillida! All he needs is one good—”

“That’s _enough,_ dear,” Aunt Enid interrupted calmly. Uncle Algie settled back in his chair, grumbling something about dratted women and not letting a boy live up to his potential. “Have you any news from the Chichester relatives, Phyllida dear?”

“Gah! room is like a boiler. I’ll just open the window a smidgen, shall I?”

Gran ignored him. “As a matter of fact, Agnes wrote me not two weeks ago. It seems Horace has had a spot of trouble with the Ministry for unregistered experimental charms. They had to go to the doctor because his nose still hadn’t stopped whistling since he tried out his new wand polish, and when they couldn’t explain the malady, they had to go to London and explain themselves. Most embarrassing, I assure you—”

Neville sighed and rested his chin on one hand, his elbow propped up on the arm of his chair. His eye strayed to Uncle Algie’s side, where the mysterious wrapped package had been stuffed under the ottoman. His curiosity sparked, he studied the box, trying to imagine what might be inside. Alistair Houghton had a puffskein for Christmas last year, and it had come in a box, but that had had holes for breathing, and besides, Filibuster hardly did anything but sleep: he’d never make such a fuss as that.

“Curious, laddie?”

Neville came out of his thoughts at Uncle Algie’s voice. He had a conspiratorial sparkle in his eye, and he spoke in a hush. “Thought you might be,” he chuckled. “Can’t blame a lad for wondering, eh wot?” He leaned forward and pulled out the box from under the footstool. Helplessly Neville watched, fascinated. Gran and Great Aunt Enid were distracted by the arrival of the tea. Uncle Algie winked, and handed the gift to his grand-nephew. “Take a peek,” he whispered.

“Algador!”

The two males turned swiftly at the stern voice. Gran’s brow was furrowed. “Don’t mess about with that stuff now, have some tea!” she commanded. Adopting a hangdog expression, Uncle Algie shuffled over to the tea tray and took a plate with some biscuits. “Neville darling, what would you like?” Gran asked.

“Just a scone, please,” he answered, his eyes locked on the lurching, wobbling packing.

“Ooo, lemon poppyseed, my favorite!” Aunt Enid exclaimed. The two ancient women returned to talking, and at first Neville obediently turned his attention to their conversation. But after a while, Uncle Algie caught his eye again. He kept jerking his head toward the box, which was now rattling angrily against the hardwood floor.

“Go on, boy,” he mouthed. “Open it.”

Neville shrank away a bit. “I… I don’t really know if I want to,” he whispered.

Uncle Algie straightened up — offended? “Go on, Neville, don’t be a spoilsport! Trust me, you’ll love it!”

Reluctantly, Neville slid off the plush armchair and inched his way toward the package. With each step he took closer, the box shook more angrily. With his great-uncle’s eyes on him and no salvation coming from his otherwise-engaged grandmother, he was doomed: there was no way out of this. He gulped, and stretched his hand toward the box.

“Neville? What are you doing?”

“Go on, Neville my boy, open it up!” Uncle Algie cried at the same time. Neville shut his eyes tight and ripped blindly at the paper. A gasp of horror from his grandmother confirmed his worst fears concerning the nature of the package.

“Algador! What… _is_ that?!”

Uncle Algie beamed. “A Beginner’s Bludger! Neville’s a strong boy — he would make a _smashing_ Beater!”

Neville didn’t like the sound of this. “Gran, what’s a Beater?” he ventured.

“Quidditch, dear,” she answered distractedly. _“Vulgar_ sport.”

“Nonsense! It’s your family legacy, old fellow! Why, back in my day, I was the finest Beater Hufflepuff had in many a year! ‘Algie the Attacker,’ that’s what they called me, ho-ho! Me and Pembroke Tullfield—”

“Neville, don’t listen to his prattle, dear, he doesn’t—”

Uncle Algie cut her off. “Now see here, boy, Quidditch is the best thing that ever happened to be, ’sides your Great Aunt Enid, of course. Now what a Beater does is whack this ball around and try and knock the other team silly off their brooms—”

“Brooms?” Neville had never been allowed on a broom.

“Algador, don’t—!” But it was too late. Uncle Algie had already opened the box.

A small beige ball shot out of its container and began attacking the ceiling. Gran shrieked, but Uncle Algie just chuckled. “Don’t have to worry about holes, m’dear, these’re soft — nothing like the real thing, oh no!” The Beginner’s Bludger was collapsing into the walls, rebounding off the portraiture and ricocheting off the edges of the silver cabinet. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy!” Uncle Algie urged. “Catch it!”

The ball hurtled past Neville’s face. He yelped and jumped back. “Oh do calm down, Algie,” Aunt Enid said as she took a sip of her tea.

Neville found himself being lifted by his waist. Too surprised to move, he hung limply as Uncle Algie rushed about the room, chasing the ball and telling Neville to make an effort to catch it, by crikey! Gran sighed despondently, and returned to her conversation with Aunt Enid.

The boy thought perhaps he was safe when the Beginner’s Bludger collided with Uncle Algie’s side, bounced into a painting of Raymond Longbottom III, Esq., which complained loudly, and careened out the open window. But no such luck. “Catch it, boy, catch it!” Uncle Algie insisted. “If you let it get away now, it’ll never come back!”

And before he knew it, Neville was hanging upside down out the bay window, flailing over the vast expanse of lawn in front of their house. He did what any sensible eight-year old would do: he panicked.

“Nah, that’s no way to go about it!” Uncle Algie shouted as Neville shrieked to be pulled back inside. “Look, the Bludger’s within reach! Here, I’ll just swing you this way a little—”

“Meringue, Algie?”

“Hmph?” Uncle Algie was distracted by Aunt Enid’s offer. He beamed and began to walk towards her. “Oh I say, don’t mind if I—what is it, Phyllida?” For the face of Neville’s grandmother was ashen and drained. For an instant, the three Longbottoms were frozen to the spot. Then next they had all dashed to the bay window, and were clustered about it, looking for a sign of the lost child.

Suddenly Phyllida gasped. “Bless me!” she cried. “If only Algernon could see this!”

For Neville — plain, ordinary Neville — had bounced all the way through the garden and down the road.

* * *

_“Stripe me if I didn’t know he was bound for Hogwarts all along!” Uncle Algie boomed. “And think, Phyllida, it might have happened a whole lot earlier if you’d just pushed the boy a little more.” For once, Neville’s grandmother kept stony silent in the face of the lighthearted challenge. Uncle Algie hugged Neville tight against him by the shoulders. “Ever thought about Quidditch when you get there, lad?”_

A terrified look crossed the boy’s face. It seemed to provide Uncle Algie with inspiration. “I know just the thing! We’ll head straight for Quality Quidditch Supplies! You’ll have nothing but the best, Neville — and you just watch, your House’ll be begging you to play Beater for you in no time!”

“Algie,” Aunt Enid said after a pause, “how about that toad, then?”


End file.
